


mercy of pain

by limehoneytea



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But that doesn't disregard his trauma !!, Character Study, Christmas Fluff, Daphne Grimm is Baz's mom!, Family Angst, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Hugs, M/M, Malcolm Grimm is sort of an asshole, Mistletoe, Not Wayward Son Compliant, Simon Snow Heals, Sleepy Cuddles, Tenderness, Touch-Starved, because she's his mom!!, but also! Baz loves Daphne!, but not as fluffy as a lot of the tags makes it sound, ish, it's about BALANCE, not as angsty as the title makes it sound, not disregarding Natasha as his mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limehoneytea/pseuds/limehoneytea
Summary: The problem of pain is that I cannot feel my father’s and he cannot feel mine. This, I suppose, is the essential mercy of pain- Eula Biss, “The Pain Scale”-
Relationships: Daphne Grimm & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Dev & Niall & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Fiona Pitch & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Malcolm Grimm/Daphne Grimm (minor), Malcolm Grimm/Natasha Grimm-Pitch, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 5
Kudos: 91





	mercy of pain

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably not gonna write anything wayward son compliant until the third book comes out because we're at this weird stage in the plot and as much as I love angst, I don't love that brand of angst you know, and I need closure before I can properly work with it :)

_The problem of pain is that I cannot feel my father’s and he cannot feel mine. This, I suppose, is the essential mercy of pain_

_\- Eula Biss, “The Pain Scale” -_

  
  
  


He was his mother’s son. 

He had her nose, her cheekbones, and her mannerisms arranged neatly on his face, with her ambitious nature, and affinity for knowledge lodged in the forefront of his mind. 

His father couldn’t stand the sight of him.

He had tried, the first few months. Tried to be a present father, tried to be kind, and to be patient. He tried not to see Natasha in his lopsided grin and soft curls. He tried not to see her in his passionate debates about the merits of good pasta, tried not to see her in his sleepy mutterings, tried not to see her the few days he was sick and spent most of his time with his head on Malcolm’s shoulder. 

He knew it wasn’t his fault. The boy was only five and Malcolm couldn’t blame him even if it was. But, it creeps up on you, when you never get to mourn. When you never get to ugly cry over your murdered wife because you’re a dignified member of the Old Families first, a father second, and a human being last. 

It was Christmas Day when he changed. It was obviously a long time coming but it was not so obvious to a small child, no matter how much of Natasha Pitch lived in him. Baz Grimm-Pitch woke up happy on Christmas morning to a house lost of life, and fell asleep to his father’s sobs, trying to muffle his own in the stuffed bear his aunt had gotten him. 

Five-year-olds aren’t supposed to muffle their sobs for their fathers. Five-year-olds are supposed to cry and scream and throw a tantrum until they feel better, fathers be damned. 

They exchanged more words and more touches in those few months than they did for all of the rest of his life. 

Baz grew up and learned not to expect to be touched or to be loved and given affection. 

Fiona tried, with her lopsided grin and pats on the back. She would bring him things, ruffle his hair, and call him “boyo” with a fond smile she tried to mask as teasing. Every smile she could bring out of him put a damper on the pain seeing Natasha every time she looked in the mirror did. (Malcolm couldn’t stand the sight of her either. Baz and Fiona matched like that.)

When Daphne came along, she tried too. As much as the boy needed a mother’s love, he didn’t want it. He didn’t want anything to do with her, at first. It took years before he stopped being surprised at her hand on his shoulder, or her fingers tapping on his arm. It took years for the words “Mother” to come out of his mouth to address her without his face contorting like he had tasted something sour and was trying to hide it. 

He had given her a hug once. When he came home from his fifth year at Watford, screamed to his father about how he was _fucking gay_ and ran away to his room when the first words from Malcolm’s mouth were about legacies and bloodlines. When Daphne came up to check on him, he bounded straight into her arms and cried on her shoulder, clutching at her back like she was the only thing that was keeping him from collapsing to the ground. 

It didn’t last very long and it didn’t happen again for a very long time. Being in Daphne’s arms just felt _wrong_. She smelled too little of fire and too much of flowers, and her body was made up of too many pointed angles and clear lines. Her hands were too dainty and her fingers were too long from where she carded them through his hair, but at least the motion was somewhat distantly familiar and though it had been ten years, Baz reveled in the touch.

But then, Daphne whispered something along the lines of “he’ll come around,” in an effort to be kind and gentle, but Baz recoiled like she had electrically shocked him. He shook his head once, twice, three times, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing up his fingers to place over them. 

In the moment, he thought _Mum wouldn’t have made excuses for him, Mum would have been angry at him_ but somewhere deep inside him, he knew that she probably would have reacted the same way his father did. 

“Thanks,” he had said instead of screaming like he wanted to, stuttering out the word “Mo-mother,” after it. Baz Pitch didn’t stutter, it just wasn’t like him, and Daphne knew so, but she smiled gently, squeezed his shoulder and left the room, throwing another, softer smile towards him as she closed the door. 

Dev and Niall tried as well. They were Baz’s best friends, no matter how much he liked to claim otherwise, but they weren’t used to touch either. Still, they tried. They clapped Baz on the shoulder sometimes, ruffled his hair when they thought he was being grumpy and did the trademarked bro-hug-slap routine when he made the winning goal in football. 

Besides, they didn’t show affection through touch. They showed affection by saving a slice of Baz’s favorite rare roast beef if he was running late for dinner, or by throwing him a jacket when he shivered from the cold wind. They noticed when Baz started playing sad music on his violin and brought him more gummy worms than probably healthy for any of them to consume. 

They were his best friends, and they loved him, far more than he thought his father did anyway, and for a long time, he was okay with _just_ their way of love. 

Until Simon Snow.

He had fantasies about Simon Snow, of course, he was a teenage boy with a crush, and it was practically a given. He had dreams about Simon Snow pressing him to a wall or putting him on his knees, or hovering over him. 

But he also had different dreams. Dreams of Simon Snow pulling him into a tender hug, of Simon Snow holding his hand and kissing his knuckles, of Simon Snow letting Baz burrow into him after a long day, winding strong arms around him, of Simon Snow loving and cherishing him until all he wanted to do was melt into a gooey pile of happiness. 

Baz Pitch grew up thinking of love in touches and tenderness to be a novelty, something he didn’t deserve. But he wanted. He wanted to be held and to be loved in a way he hadn’t been for a long time. He yearned for it, he ached for it, but he learned to live with the thought Simon Snow would drive his sword through Baz’s heart before he could even get the taste.

But he didn’t.

Christmas came and Simon Snow kissed him, hovered over him, and slept next to him. In the days after, the war ended with Simon and Baz fragile, but whole. 

Intact. 

Together. 

Simon Snow healed and grew, and learned to feel like he deserved the love others gave him. He learned that he quite liked hugging, and touching, and holding hands, and he learned the ever stoic Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch did too. Simon Snow wasn’t used to physical affection either, the care homes never really allowed for them, but the way Baz’s eyes lit up when Simon’s arms circled his waist, or Simon’s fingers drifted over his arms for no particular reason, made Simon want to _try_. 

It was two Christmases after the end of the war, the first since magic came back to Hampshire, and since Malcolm Grimm agreed to at least _try_ to be civil with the man his son loved so much. 

He watched his son smile through Christmas Eve, laugh through Christmas Dinner, and kiss tenderly under the mistletoe Mordelia thought would be hilarious to put up, his eyes soft and his lips smiling even though they were otherwise occupied.

He watched as they nodded off on the sofa the night of Christmas Day, Simon Snow holding Baz to his chest tightly like he was something precious, his face buried in the soft dark curls. He watched them try to make pancakes for breakfast on Boxing Day, Simon’s arms wrapped around Baz’s waist, clinging on, as Baz tried to flip the pancakes. 

On the 27th of December, when the pair were due to leave for London, he watched as Baz hugged his stepmother and whispered something in her ear that made tears trickle down her cheeks as she smiled a face-splitting smile (he had said _thank you, I love you,_ and Daphne treasured those words every time he said them for the rest of her life).

Simon had hugged Daphne too, and she had told him to “take care of my boy,” which had made Baz blush and Simon smile as wide as he could. 

The pair turned to Malcolm, and Baz cleared his throat the look of sheer joy draining out of his face. Simon grabbed his hand and intertwined their fingers and Malcolm managed to murmur, “I’m proud of you, son,” so quietly, he wasn’t sure they heard. Baz nodded, and then nodded again, before bending down to kiss Mordelia’s forehead. 

Five words didn’t make up for sixteen years of feeling like an outsider in your own home, Baz knew. But, as he grabbed his bag and smiled at Daphne and Mordelia, his father met his eyes, and Baz felt a corner of his mouth curl up, just slightly.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked it? Thanks for reading :)


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